“Yes, sir,” McCoy said. “But we don’t have anything of value.”
He patted one of the stacks of reports.
“These are mostly pre-Inchon,” he said. “They locate POW holding points we know are no longer there . . .”
“Spit it out, Ken,” Howe said.
“My gut feeling is that General Dean may already be in Peking,” he said. “The ChiComs know what a valuable propaganda tool he could be—hell, is—and they know we’ll probably stage an operation to get him back. If he’s in China—even just a couple of miles across the border . . .”
“I take your point,” Howe said. “McCoy, this is in the nature of an order. Even ‘a couple of miles across the border’ is not the Flying Fish Channel Islands. I don’t want you staging any kind of an operation across the border unless the President gives the okay. You understand me?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” McCoy said.
“So tell me what you two have decided,” Howe ordered.
“Aside from dividing the peninsula between us, sir, with Colonel Vandenburg looking on the west and me on the east, not much. And I thought we’d better wait and talk to Dunston before we decide even that.”
“And he’s not here,” Howe said. “You said he had to drive?”
“Probably, sir.”
“Why couldn’t he have used one of the helicopters?”
“We’re going to keep them as quiet as possible, as long as possible, sir,” McCoy said.
“What we need is a couple of regular airplanes, General, ” Vandenburg said.
“A couple?”
“An L-19,” McCoy said. “I’ll settle for an L-4. And a Beaver.”
“What’s a Beaver?”
“Six-place, single-engine high-wing, General,” Vandenburg said. “Designed for Alaska, Canada. Rugged, and they can land on a dime.”
“I think I’ve seen one,” Howe said. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”
“General, I’m pretty sure I can get both, but hanging on to them—especially the Beaver—is going to be a real problem. They’re in short supply, and every general in Korea thinks he should have one. And probably should.”
“But you need one more than they do, eh?”
“Yes, sir. I think it’s a question of deciding priorities. I think getting General Dean back qualifies.”
“Yeah, so do I. Not to mention getting young Pickering back,” Howe said. “Has McCoy told you about him?”
“No, sir.”
“Okay. Major Pickering, General Pickering’s son, was shot down about two months ago, and has been evading capture ever since. . . .”
“You know that, sir? That he’s alive and hasn’t been captured?”
“McCoy thinks he’s alive,” Howe said.
“Where is he?” Vandenburg said, turning to McCoy.
“The last sighting was east of Wonju,” McCoy said.
“You sighted him?”
“We sighted where he had stamped out a signal . . . his initials and an arrow on the ground, not him. I figure we missed him by no more than a couple of hours.”
“You couldn’t pick him up with a chopper?”
“We didn’t have the choppers then, and we couldn’t take one away from the 1st MarDiv—they’re using them to transport wounded.”
“ ‘Couldn’t take one’ from the Marines—or anyone else who has one—is past tense, Ken,” Howe said. “The rules have changed.”
“Sir?”
“This is absolutely not for dissemination,” Howe said. “I think the reason the President called General Pickering to Washington is to give him the CIA. He asked me what kind of a director I thought he’d make, and I told him I couldn’t think of anyone better qualified to take it over and straighten it out. So what we have is a changed priority with regard to Major Pickering. We can’t afford to have the son of the Director of the CIA in enemy hands.” He paused. “That, too, Ken, is in the nature of an order.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Okay, Colonel,” Howe went on. “You lay your hands on these airplanes you need, and I will do my damnedest to see that no one takes them away from you.”
“Sir, may I offer a suggestion about how that might be done?” Vandenburg asked.
“Shoot.”
“I notice the general doesn’t have an aide-de-camp.”
“I don’t need one,” Howe said simply, then chuckled and added: “I shine my own shoes.”
“Sir, I respectfully suggest that you do need an aide-de-camp, ” Vandenburg said. “A fairly senior one. And I volunteer for the duty.”
“Where are you going with that idea?”
“I don’t think any general here, from MacArthur on down, would try to take an airplane away from the aide-de-camp of—What’s your official title, sir?”
“We’re the Presidential Mission to the Supreme Command, United Nations Command,” Master Sergeant Rogers said. “His official title is Chief of Mission. Boss, I think the colonel’s had a fine idea.”